The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million eBook

“I’m glad I happened to have that dollar,”
she said. “You’re all run down, honey.”

Mr. Peters had a tablespoonful of the stuff inserted
into him. Then Mrs. Peters sat on his lap and
murmured:

“Call me tootsum wootsums again, James.”

He sat still, held there by his materialized goddess
of spring.

Spring had come.

On the bench in Union Square Mr. Ragsdale and Mr.
Kidd squirmed, tongue-parched, awaiting D’Artagnan
and his dollar.

“I wish I had choked her at first,” said
Mr. Peters to himself.

VII

WHILE THE AUTO WAITS

Promptly at the beginning of twilight, came again
to that quiet corner of that quiet, small park the
girl in gray. She sat upon a bench and read a
book, for there was yet to come a half hour in which
print could be accomplished.

To repeat: Her dress was gray, and plain enough
to mask its impeccancy of style and fit. A large-meshed
veil imprisoned her turban hat and a face that shone
through it with a calm and unconscious beauty.
She had come there at the same hour on the day previous,
and on the day before that; and there was one who knew
it.

The young man who knew it hovered near, relying upon
burnt sacrifices to the great joss, Luck. His
piety was rewarded, for, in turning a page, her book
slipped from her fingers and bounded from the bench
a full yard away.

The young man pounced upon it with instant avidity,
returning it to its owner with that air that seems
to flourish in parks and public places—­a
compound of gallantry and hope, tempered with respect
for the policeman on the beat. In a pleasant voice,
he risked an inconsequent remark upon the weather—­that
introductory topic responsible for so much of the
world’s unhappiness—­and stood poised
for a moment, awaiting his fate.

The girl looked him over leisurely; at his ordinary,
neat dress and his features distinguished by nothing
particular in the way of expression.

“You may sit down, if you like,” she said,
in a full, deliberate contralto. “Really,
I would like to have you do so. The light is too
bad for reading. I would prefer to talk.”

The vassal of Luck slid upon the seat by her side
with complaisance.

“Do you know,” he said, speaking the formula
with which park chairmen open their meetings, “that
you are quite the stunningest girl I have seen in
a long time? I had my eye on you yesterday.
Didn’t know somebody was bowled over by those
pretty lamps of yours, did you, honeysuckle?”

“Whoever you are,” said the girl, in icy
tones, “you must remember that I am a lady.
I will excuse the remark you have just made because
the mistake was, doubtless, not an unnatural one—­in
your circle. I asked you to sit down; if the
invitation must constitute me your honeysuckle, consider
it withdrawn.”